


Dinner with John

by MelinaLove



Category: Queen (Band)
Genre: Accidental wetting, Dating, M/M, Omorashi, Shyness, Social Anxiety
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-21
Updated: 2019-11-21
Packaged: 2021-02-25 22:40:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,016
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21513178
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MelinaLove/pseuds/MelinaLove
Summary: A good date gone very, very bad.
Relationships: Freddie Mercury/John Reid
Comments: 14
Kudos: 20





	Dinner with John

**Author's Note:**

> If you wanna read something specific you can request in comments, but only Freddie 🤣 because lbr he’s the only member of Queen where omorashi actually makes sense and would happen.

The first time Freddie goes out on his own with John Reid, he’s most horribly nervous. It’s much more frightening without the others there as a buffer, and he feels queasy with shyness. He can hardly even talk. 

John looks after him, though. He pulls out Freddie’s chair for him like he’s a girl, and orders everything for them both, which is a relief because Freddie has no idea what he should order, and deals with the wine, and keeps talking in a friendly, even quite gentle, way. Eventually Freddie relaxes enough to be able to reply, and even to nibble at the food. He can’t eat very much, he’s too nervous, but John doesn’t get angry with him.

It didn’t take long for any of them to notice that John Reid had a partiality to Freddie. In a sense, the others weren’t surprised; without even talking about it, there was a sense that such things had to be expected sometimes. That there’d be no discussion, only acceptance of the need to keep Freddie safe, and not to hurt him... knowing as they have, for a long time now, how easy that would be. 

He’s so brave up on stage, doesn’t even flinch at insults, that it can be almost physically painful to see how they affect him in the off hours. 

Fairy. Faggot. Poofter. Shirtlifter. 

If John Reid likes him, well. Freddie can’t always draw the short straw, can he?

Now, in the softly lit restaurant, he wiggles in his seat a bit. He’s starting to need the toilet in an obtrusive way, not just a background pressure that can be set aside. He ought to get up and ask, find the Gents... just go. 

For God’s sake. There must be one, there’s always a loo in a restaurant. It’s not as if he’s listening properly, when he’s thinking about needing a wee...

“Freddie?” John is looking at him curiously. “Are you feeling all right, dear?” 

Freddie nods shyly. He can’t. He can’t say it. Not on... a first date, if that’s what this is? Surely he hasn’t misunderstood, surely...

But he can’t ask for the toilet like a schoolboy, it will just make him seem pathetic. He crosses his legs hard under the table. If John goes, he can go after him, watch the direction...

Only about four minutes later, he’s feeling much worse. Much, much... it has to be the booze, what else? He hasn’t even drunk that much, but the booze, and being so nervous... Even though he went four times before leaving the flat, because he was so anxious about it all. 

He feels almost tearful, which is even worse, even more pathetic.

John Reid is decidedly worried. Is the poor boy feeling ill? Does he need to be sick, perhaps? It was never going to be easy, taking the high strung little thing out, but he’d never guessed it would be as fragile as this...

Freddie feels, to his utter horror, a large leak of warmth in his knickers. They’re white silk, expensive, and he wore them in case John wanted to touch him, maybe even fuck him. Now... oh god, they’re wet, he’s wet them. His eyes sting sharply and he gulps.

“I - I - sorry,” he says, gasping. “I n-need the toilet.” 

It’s such a rude, babyish way to say it, but he can’t take time to choose his words. 

He gets up hurriedly, dropping his napkin on the floor, and scurries towards the exit. One of the waiters is in his path, and Freddie croaks, “Toilet!” at him, a miserable squeak of a noise.

He’s getting wetter. It’s hot, slow but steady, nothing he can do to stop it...

“Just there, sir - !”

The waiter is pointing; there’s a discreet door tucked behind a screen. Freddie rushes to it, then through it.

Not a urinal. He’s too - it’s too late - he dashes into the stall and tears at his dark blue trousers. Oh god, oh thank god he’s wearing these, not something light. The wetness has gone through, he can feel it as he unfastens, and inside his trousers it’s trickling right down his leg, itchy and tickly and warm. 

He collapses onto the toilet seat and wees, a stream pouring out. Even though he - he’s wet - there’s still a lot more. It keeps coming...

The door. He’s just finished, he’s about to pull the chain, but he freezes.

“Freddie?” It’s John. He sounds cautious, even anxious.

Freddie wants to hide. To pull his feet up so no one can possibly realise he’s in the stall... 

“Freddie? Are you being sick, hon?” 

He sounds so worried, and it’s all Freddie’s fault. He can’t keep in an anguished little sob. 

But now John knows he’s there. He must know because he’s come right to the stall door. 

“Freddie,” he says kindly. “Freddie - I - I’m not... I don’t want to hurt your feelings or anything...”

Oh God, Freddie thinks. He’s leaving me, right here and now. Leaving me in the restaurant toilet. Will he even pay the bill? 

He sobs again.

“Freddie,” John repeats, groping for words, “Did - what happened? I - I know this sounds a bit absurd, but... did you have - you know. An accident?”

Freddie’s tears stop as if turned off. He draws a tremulous breath and says, “H-How did you - who told you - how did you - know?” 

He sounds tear-choked and terrified, still. 

“Open the door, love,” John is saying. “Let me in to see you.” 

It’s another four long minutes before a mostly-silent Freddie can be persuaded to open the door. John sees the darker patch on his already dark trousers at once, and he smells of urine. Sharp reek. 

Before John can figure out what he should say, what he should do, Freddie says, clinging shakily to the door frame, “I - I’m sorry, I’m so sorry... I - I just c-couldn’t hold it.” 

He’s in tears. 

“I’ll take you home,” John says slowly. “Stay - stay here. I’ll go and pay, and then I - I’ll take you home.” 

He’s not going to fuck Freddie tonight. Not after this.


End file.
